


Transcendence

by SwiftSnowmane



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Angst, Beth PoV, Beth contemplates escape and dreams of Daryl, Beth during Slabtown, Brief suicidal thoughts, Confusion, Dark Thoughts, Dreams vs. Reality, F/M, Fear, Gen, Imprisonment, Introspection, Missing Moments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-14
Updated: 2015-07-14
Packaged: 2018-04-09 07:48:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4339997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SwiftSnowmane/pseuds/SwiftSnowmane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In her mind’s eye she saw as a bird sees, across the charred ruins of the metropolis to the vast countryside, and to the dark forest beyond.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Transcendence

**Author's Note:**

> My reaction to ‘Slabtown’. I started writing this almost immediately after the episode aired, but for a gazillion reasons could not bring myself to finish it until now. Originally meant to be canon-compliant, but now in my mind part of a divergence in which Beth escapes the hospital. 
> 
> Can be read alongside [ this fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4276761) and this [fan vid](http://swiftsnowmane.tumblr.com/post/125965760037/alillywhite-we-are-going-to-get-out-of-here-run) (commissioned especially with this AU concept in mind). 
> 
> **Note: as always, please respect my wishes not to discuss the show beyond the s5 msf. Thank you!** :)

“She’s got the whole dark forest living inside of her.”  
-Tom Waits

 

~

Beth's eyes fluttered open. For a moment she lay perfectly still, her face turned heavenward.

No, not heaven. Not the morning sky. Nor the spreading branches of oak and the swaying pines. Rather, the dull, white-grey of a painted ceiling. _Oh…we’re still in that place._ She smiled, knowing that Daryl must’ve let her sleep in again. _Better get up, Greene,_ she told herself. _He’ll be waitin’ down in the kitchen. Wonder if it’ll be pigs’ feet again…_

Then she heard it. _Tick, tick, tick._

Tilting her head slightly, she tried to place the familiar sound. It occurred to her that the mattress beneath her was thin, lumpy, and hard. Had she not fallen asleep upon the soft, cozy bed in the attic of the funeral home? _Am I…in the prison?_ she wondered. _Where…where am I?_

And so, even as Beth sat up slowly, even as she stumbled out of the unfamiliar bed and tottered to the window, even as she peered out at the alien cityscape below, even as she crossed the room and pounded on the locked door with all her might, even as she shouted for help, she tried to calm herself, tried to assure herself that this had to be just another nightmare.

She heard urgent voices, the rush of footsteps down a hallway, and she backed away from the door. A primal instinct, awakened out there in the wilderness, told her she was stripped of every advantage. No weapon in her hand. No trees at her back. No tall grass to run through. There was nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.

No Daryl at her side.

Surely, she would wake any moment now.

Heart in her throat, she waited. Waited to hear his soft rasp, waited to feel his mouth against her hair. _“Beth, shh, shh, you’re dreamin’ again.”_

_Tick, tick, tick._

The door opened; two strangers entered.

Beth waited, but she did not wake.

~

_Where am I? Who are you? Where is he?_ Her thoughts formed, cloud-like, a sudden storm in her mind. But she could not tell if she spoke the words aloud.

At first, she heard the answer but did not comprehend. _Grady Memorial. Atlanta._

“You were alone,” a woman’s voice explained. Loud as a thunder-crack, striking through her clouded thoughts. Matter-of-fact. A statement of the obvious. The voice formed more words, words as foreign to Beth as if they were another language entirely. _Officers. One of them now. You owe us._

And then Beth comprehended, but ceased to hear any further sound save the pounding in her chest and the ringing in her ears.

Standing there, swaying like a newborn calf on unused limbs, she became aware that she was clad in nothing but a flimsy hospital gown, bearing a cast on her wrist and a needle in her arm that in her fear and confusion she’d pulled out, tried to use in self-defense. Now she clung to something cold, metallic. An IV-stand. Her grip tightened on the pole as if it, too, were a weapon.

She had sworn to hold on. To hold on as long as she could, until she blew away with dust and ashes in the wind. She had faced nothingness before, had once even thought to embrace it as a lover. But now it seemed the nothingness had risen up, and had taken _him_. Not here, they said. How could it be? It was wrong, all wrong. Upside down. It should have been her. As if the world had not already turned, and turned, and turned enough. As if the world had not already taken everything.

_“I don’t think the good ones survive.”_

_It was you_ , she wanted to weep. _You were one of the good ones. One of the best._

The two strangers looked her up and down. Beneath the hard gaze of the dark-haired woman in the uniform and the squinting, concerned expression of the bearded man in the white coat, Beth clung on to the IV rack, and tried to keep herself from trembling. Tried to hold herself as still as possible. Some wildness inside her knew that to make any sudden move, to show any sign of fight or flight, would only tighten the snare.

She would not be trapped. Not like some animal. Not like someone’s prey.

The man—the doctor—filled out his chart, nodded and spoke more words to the woman. “That’s enough for now…Beth, you said?” she heard him say.

She did not reply, only made the slightest nod in response.

“Well, _Beth_ , seems like you could use a bit more rest—”

“It’s true,” the woman interjected. “You need rest, or you won’t be able to do your job. We’ll monitor you for the rest of the day. But be ready to start in the morning. I’ll let one of the wards in with food and fresh clothes.”

Beth could only gape at the woman. The…officer. _What could you possibly want from me?_ she wanted to ask. And the real question, still swirling in her mind: _Where is he?_ But she swallowed both protest and question, for the look on the policewoman’s face made the words wither within her before she could bring herself to speak.

The woman raised a perfectly manicured brow, and her tone softened, even if her eyes did not. “Remember, Beth. You owe us.”

With a nod at one another, the two strangers turned toward the door. As they moved away from her, Beth could have screamed at them. For speaking to her as if they knew her, for staring at her as though she owed them her life. When the only person who’d truly protected her all this time was, apparently, gone. Gone, as if he had never been.

And then they were striding back into the hall, locking the door behind them, and Beth once more found herself alone.

Still standing there, clinging to the IV rack, her mind reeled. _Not here. Gone. No, it can’t be. It can’t be true._

Fear for her missing companion coursed through her, swiftly followed by a surge of anger—anger at these people, anger at herself for being alive if he was not. She could have shouted at God himself. _Why him? What was the point? What was the point of anything?_

A despair rose in her, as a heavy mist rises from the forest floor. And in that dark moment, Beth was not certain God—or anyone else—was listening.

But then, slowly, fragments of memory came back to her; a flicker of faith returned. Daryl calling to her where she’d sat waiting expectantly for him in the candlelit kitchen. The shot of fear in his voice, as he’d told her to get the hell out of there. She had refused, at first. _“I’m not gonna leave you,”_ she’d protested. But he’d promised her: _“I’ll meet you out on the road.”_

And so she’d fled, limping slightly still, but making her way through the path he’d cleared for her out of the door and onto the leaf-strewn lawn. She’d fought her way down the driveway, had almost reached the road. She had been so sure they’d made it; she’d been holding the walker off. And then, she’d heard him come through the front door of that beautiful, terrible place. She’d heard the unmistakable thud of his step on the porch floorboards, the crunch of his boots upon the leaves, the sound of him coming to her aid. And she remembered the rush of relief that he’d made it out of there alive…

But then, something had struck her. From then on, she’d known only darkness.

And now, they told her that he was not here. That she’d been alone when they had found her.

Before the turn, Beth had always trusted figures of authority. Her teachers, her principal, her pastor. Her father. Before there was no authority left. To be faced with it now, this shadow of authority still clinging to some semblance of existence in this place, this…hospital, was altogether strange and unsettling. Her implicit trust had wavered at their words: _“You were alone.”_ Words spoken calmly, words that cut deeper than knives.

And yet, they had insisted. The strange uniformed woman who’d spoken of owing and debts to be paid, even though Beth could not remember ever asking for their help. The mild-mannered doctor who’d spoken of her many injuries even though she could feel no pain, only numbness.

Beth shuffled back over to the bed, and sat there upon its edge, head in her hands, tearing at the loose waves of her hair. Her locks tumbled around her, flowed down around her face, a golden waterfall of grief.

She thought she might drown in it.

Something inside of her snapped; bile rose in her throat. “You were supposed to be the last man standing!” she cried out. She knew she was trembling, but she could not stop herself. “You were supposed to be the last man standing. You were supposed to be…” Finally, her voice wavered, cracked, as though she choked upon dust.

She wanted to weep, but the tears did not come—the wellspring inside of her had drained away. No salt water flowed, nothing. Only dry, heaving sobs that racked her entire being until she was bending over, sides aching, retching into the bedpan.

Doubled over in that cold room, Beth tried not to think of the last time she’d thrown up watery bile, the morning after the moonshine. How she’d knelt upon the leaves and twigs, upon the damp earth beside a flowing stream. How he had reached her side in just a few long strides, let his crossbow clatter to the ground where he crouched beside her there beneath the spreading boughs of a big oak. How he’d held her gently by the arm, his voice reassuring, regaling her with tales of the _lot of things_ he’d done himself, back in the day.

Between the dry, heaving sobs and the swirling vortex of aching memory, she struggled, for just a moment, to breathe. But she managed to wrench herself upright and drew a shuddering gasp. She realized she’d thrown up in her hair. It occurred to her that someone had taken the time to wash it and brush it for her. _What a waste_ , she thought as insane laughter bubbled inside her.

She heard a wretched noise escape her throat, and it sounded like the cry of some wounded creature, or the laughter of madwoman. _Good_ , she thought, _maybe they’ll think I’ve lost it_. Maybe she had. She sat there on the side of the bed until the strangled laughter turned once more into sobs, until her stomach heaved again and she threw up into the bedpan once more.

Eventually, the pounding in her head began to fade, and her ears adjusted to the faint noises around her. Voices, footsteps, from further down the corridor. And there it was again. _Tick, tick, tick._ For a moment, she could not place the sound. _Tick, tick, tick_. She glanced up at the wall, and saw it—a clock, doggedly telling its tale of time. For some reason that made her smirk wryly to herself. She wondered what sort of people these were, who thought that they were that safe. That they still had that much control.

That time even mattered.

~

But time must have indeed passed, because soon enough, she heard footsteps approaching once more. Almost before she could think or react, the door to her room creaked open again and someone entered.

When she saw it was not the same strangers from before, Beth let out a breath she didn’t even know she was holding. It was someone else, a girl carrying some folded blue hospital clothing under one arm and dragging a mop and wheeled bucket with the other. No, not a girl. A young woman—perhaps a few years older than herself. This must be one of the wards that the hard-eyed officer spoke of…

The young woman set the clothing down on the edge of the bed and stared at her with a strange expression. “So. You’re awake, finally.”

“Who—how—?” Beth stuttered.

“Oh, I’m Joan,” the girl said, and a slight smile appeared on her lips. “Kept an eye on you while you were…”

Confusion still reigned in Beth’s mind. “How—?” she choked on the questions threatening to tumble from her lips, and blinked back fresh tears threatening to spill from her eyes. “How long have I—?”

“A few days,” Joan said.

“A few _days_?” Beth gasped. But that could mean…

“Well, yeah, you were out cold when they found you.” The girl gave another slight, rueful smile, and leaned on the mop. “Or so they say. D’you remember anything?”

Beth tried to think, but her mind was reeling afresh with his new information. A few days? “Who are _they_ , anyway?” she managed. “Dr. Edwards, I think? And Officer Learner?”

“Those two? They run this place.”

“Oh. They keep sayin' I have to work… that I owe them somethin’. I don’t understand.”

Joan gave her an odd look. “They still haven’t told you, huh? Let’s just say, if you’re not used to working hard—”

“I can work,” Beth said. “I’m stronger than I look.”

“I wasn’t saying—”

“I can do my job,” she insisted. “I can do what I’m told.”

The girl looked at her with what could only be pity. “If you only knew,” she muttered.

Beth just blinked at her, confused. “What do you mean…?”

But the young woman continued as if she hadn’t heard her. “You were crying, sometimes. When you were out. “’ _No_ ’,” you said, and a man’s name. Was he…did he hurt you?”

Beth closed her eyes. She remembered hands, rough and capable, teaching her to defend herself. Hands, gentle and trembling, tending her ankle. Arms, strong and steady, carrying her through a doorway. She opened her eyes, looked up at the girl. “He’d _never_ hurt me,” she said, with a sudden surge of fierceness.

“Oh really?” said Joan, raising her eyebrows and looking down at her with what seemed like disbelief. “That's lucky, then.”

“ _Lucky?_ ” Beth heard the incredulousness in her tone. “But they said he…he’s _gone_ , ” she breathed.

She was close to weeping again. Close to panicking at the mere thought. _Stay calm_ , she tried to remind herself. _Stay calm like you’re in the middle of the woods. Or at the edge of a field, trackin’ somethin’. Like he taught you. Calm and steady enough to hold the bow. Calm enough not to shake it when you let the bolt fly…_

Joan was still looking at her strangely, but her eyes seemed to soften a little at her obvious distress. “Yeah, _lucky_. You got something good, in there,” she said, pointing to her head. “To remember.” She looked at the floor for a moment. “That is, if you can. Remember it, I mean. When they …” she trailed off suddenly.

“When they wha—who?” Beth trembled slightly, fresh fear coursing through her.

“Nothing. Never mind.” Joan did not meet her eye, but kept her downward gaze fixed upon the floor and the mop she moved listlessly across it. “Who was he then?” she asked quietly, after a long moment. “Family?”

“I—” Beth chocked on her reply. “He was—”

A flicker of something like concern crossed the girl’s tired features. “Hey, never mind. You don’t gotta say. Not like anyone 'round here talks about _before_ , anyway.”

Beth just stared at her. “No, it’s just…my family, they’re all gone. He was my…friend.”

The girl's dark eyes narrowed. “Friend, huh?” She almost snorted the word, and Beth could hardly speak in reply, but just gaped at her. “Sure he didn’t ask for nothing else? Didn’t _demand_ what you owed him? Didn’t just _take_ it?”

This barrage crashed over her, a wave surging over her head. It was too much, everything was swimming in the confusion of her mind, in the aching of her heart. She couldn’t figure why Joan was asking such strange and piercing questions. Was she trying to find out personal information to use…to hold over somehow? Was she reporting back to the officer and the doctor? They’d sent her, after all.

Or was there yet another, far more disturbing reason for her queries?

If Beth was unsure about the young woman’s motives for asking, she was even less sure that she could answer. Unsure that she could even bear to speak of the man who had been her friend all this time without retching once more all over the floor she had just cleaned.

Joan was still waiting for her reply, one hand gripping the handle of the mop. “All I’m saying—Beth, right?”

Beth nodded, wondering if she seemed as meek and helpless as she felt.

“All I’m saying, Beth, is if he _was_ hurtin’ you, then he got what he deserved.”

That caught her attention; something stirred within her. Something fierce and wild, and protective. “No. He’d never…I _swear_. He…took care of me.”

Even as she spoke, she heard her own voice waver precariously. Her stomach churned again, and memories once more threatened to flood through her entire being, and spill over into an increasingly surreal present.

Joan looked at her long and hard, dark eyes still skeptical. “Come on. Men don’t just ‘take care’ of pretty girls these days and not expect something out of it. And yeah, don’t look at me like that. Even with those stitches on your face, you’re still the prettiest one to come through here since… ” she trailed off.

At the words, Beth’s fingers moved subconsciously to touch her cheek. Indeed, a raised welt ran along it. She remembered the feeling of scars upon a man’s back, even beneath his tattered flannel shirt, and tears pricked her eyes once more.

Joan cleared her throat then, perhaps worried now that she’d said the wrong thing. “How, uh…how long were you with him, this _friend_ of yours?”

She tried to remember. _Forever_ , she wanted to say. _It was supposed to be forever._ “A long time,” she said finally.

“Hmm. And he didn’t try anything? Not even once?”

Beth shook her head.

Joan let out a low whistle. “Damn, girl. You _were_ lucky, d’you know that? Wish I could say the same for the rest of us. Wish I could say the same for you now.” She shook her head. “It’s no wonder they didn’t…” she trailed off.

“Didn’t what?” Beth asked cautiously. Questions of her own were forming now. _What is this place, really? What happened to you? What is it you can’t tell me?_ She was beginning to think she could guess, but…

That was when she heard the sound of heavy footsteps in the hall, and realized Joan had gone quiet and still. “Nothing,” the girl said darkly. “Just get those clothes on. If you know what’s good for you.”

And then she had turned on her heel, mop and bedpan in hand, and was gone.

Mind and stomach still reeling, Beth managed to reach the pile of fresh work clothes where Joan had placed them on the edge of the bed, and collapsed onto its cold, hard mattress. She lay still, trying to calm her breathing, and squeezed her eyes shut.

Lying there alone, she prayed that when she opened her eyes once more she would finally wake from this far too-detailed dark dream, to sunlight streaming through leafy, summer branches, the scent of woodsmoke and fresh dew in her hair, and the sound of birdsong ringing through the trees. And to her companion, the last man, living and breathing beside her.

For Beth Greene still believed that all nightmares must, eventually, come to an end.

~

Days came and went. Alone in her hospital room, nights lingered, long and cold.

Just how many such days and nights passed, Beth could not say. For she had not, after all, awoken. Or rather, it seemed she had awoken in the wrong place. From the wrong dream.

For the first few days, her waking hours had been spent in a blur of being shown around half-darkened hallways by Dr. Edwards, and of having old-fashioned hospital equipment explained to her. Of attempts at small talk with the other inhabitants, only to have doors more often than not shut in her face. Of constant observance by Dawn—Officer Learner. And of observing how this place disposed of the mortal remains of those who…did not make it.

 _Use what you can use._ She tucked away the learning, like sheathing a knife. Something sharp and deadly stowed away, out of sight.

Every now and then on her rounds, she'd pass a clear glass window and catch a brief glimpse of the image therein and quickly look away. But in the mirror above the sink in her hospital room, her reflection was unavoidable. Even then she tried not to look. As though, in glimpsing herself, the glass might shatter in her face, maiming her further. She instinctively traced the line on her uncovered wrist, and swallowed, hard. She didn’t need to see the mark slashed across her cheekbone, she didn’t need to hear Joan’s words to _know_.

For Beth knew enough of wounds, from the life she’d lived—from the life she'd _chosen_ to live—to know that she would forevermore bear a scar.

She had not seen the girl Joan again since that day. She wondered at times if she had imagined her. People here seemed to melt easily back into the shadows. As thought they were adept at hiding. From one another perhaps…or from the ones who watched them constantly.

Beth knew how to lose herself in the shadows of the forest, behind the trunk of an oak, or amidst thick underbrush. Out there, with _him_ , she had learned how to run, how to hide. She had not thought she would one day have to hide indoors, amongst the living, in plain sight. And yet she adapted quickly, learned to make herself as small and innocuous as possible.

At first, she hadn’t stopped thinking of him. Not for one single second, not for one single _tick_ of the second-hand on that clock. But the fear and the worry made her insides clench and churn, and she knew that the constant strain of such fear could easily cripple her. Beth soon came to understand that her only chance to escape this place, to end this nightmare, was to quietly and compliantly work off the mysterious debt she seemed to have incurred. Simply by being found. Simply by surviving under their care. And by continuing to survive, even now, under their roof.

(If the cost of her keep were so high, she wondered, why did they not just let her leave?)

It was not easy, putting him away. Harder still, trying to convince herself that he was gone. Hardest of all, though, was learning to keep the burning questions at bay, to keep her innermost thoughts tucked away.

And so, as she rose each morning to face the workday ahead, she imagined vines and thorny brambles growing thick and tangled around the chambers of her heart. Therein she would keep the memory of the days and weeks with her now-lost companion.

Guarded, secret. _Safe_.

~

At first, Beth had eaten precious little. The little trays of bland hospital food had remained untouched, cold and congealed, beside her bed. But once she had begun working in earnest at Dr. Edward’s side, once she had begun exercising her body and mind, losing herself in the daily tasks, hunger had taken hold of her.

And so, down in the cafeteria one morning, drawn by the achingly-familiar smell of hot coffee, she was confronted by yet another strange rule, another twisted truth of this place—it was possible, apparently, to take too much.

For, as she learned, there was a _system_ here.

Nothing, nothing at all was free, and everything seemed to have some kind of hidden price.

Or so the man, the officer named Gorman had informed her. He’d smiled at his own words, a smile so false it made her stomach churn, and she’d nearly lost her appetite entirely.

Apparently, he had been the one who had found her. _“Wriggling on the road,”_ he’d said. The way he’d spoken to her, as though he knew her, and the way he’d looked at her, as though this somehow gave him some power over her, some…claim, had made her shudder with sudden fear. Sudden understanding.

In the end, she’d left without taking anything. He could keep his precious food.

As she walked away from the cafeteria, still shaking from the encounter, her thoughts turned to Daryl. _“He didn’t just take what you owed him?”_ Joan had asked, incredulous. As though this were normal. As though this was just the way things were.

As though this were some kind of sick excuse for reality.

No, Beth thought fiercely. That’s not what a real man does. A real man provides, protects. A real man stands beside you as you fight together against the horrors of the world. A real man keeps the shadows at bay.

A real man asks nothing in return.

Perhaps this place and these people were her waking reality now, but the officers who called themselves men were mere pretenders at the real thing. No matter what they said, no matter what they claimed, she did not owe them a damn thing.

Even so, Beth sensed that, should events fail to go a certain way, should she not uphold whatever they deemed her end of this twisted system, their retribution would be swift indeed.

Beneath the cast, her wrist throbbed. A reminder. _I gotta be more careful._

In the darkened hallway, she touched a finger to the stitched-up scar on her cheek, the place where Officer Learner had struck her earlier, opening the wound so that it had bled afresh, and she knew.

The hurt they dealt was anything but pretend.

~

In Dr. Edward’s cluttered office, music blared from an old record player, upbeat and cheerful. Beth squirmed slightly in the chair in front of his desk, feeling antsy and more than a little anxious.

She’d only been supposed to bring him his meal. Her instructions had been specific—she was return to the ward immediately. But Dr. Edwards had bid her to sit down, stay a while. So, torn between duty and politeness, she had.

Delicately, she ate the proffered piece of guinea pig, for her momma had always told her it was bad manners to refuse food from your host. Her momma had always taught her to be gracious when you were a guest. Beth thought there was a difference between _gracious_ and _grateful_. One meant ‘full of grace’, and the other…well, it seemed to her to infer some kind of debt owed. Something she’d have to pay back, eventually. But he’d insisted, and her curiosity and rumbling stomach had gotten the better of her and she’d relented. Perhaps, if in the rest of this strange hospital she was a mere worker—an indentured servant, even—in this office, at least, she was a guest.

Instantly, she regretted it; the meat that she chewed slowly in her mouth was somehow sickeningly rich yet oddly insubstantial at the same time. She could not help but compare it to the squirrel, rabbit, snake, and venison, all freshly hunted by Daryl’s hand or her own. All given a fighting chance. After that, eating some poor caged creature…a cornered animal with nowhere to run, well, something about it—just like something about this whole place—felt unnatural. Unreal.

All the same, it had been nice to find someone to talk to at least, here in this place. She had welcomed it.

Dr. Edwards had turned out to be pleasant enough, with much to say on a wide variety of subjects. He, too, seemed starved for conversation in this place. Starved for a _friend_ , perhaps.

And yet, there was something…a tightness in the corners of his mouth. From behind his too-big glasses, he blinked at her like a friendly owl, and yet his smiles never quite reached his eyes.

Beth had tried to look past it, for he seemed…harmless enough. Not like Dawn, who seemed to seethe with some kind of barely controlled rage beneath her carefully-presented exterior. Not like those officers who patrolled the floors and all the stairwells. Not like those men in their pressed and neat uniforms who looked at her like she was their next meal. Not like the man Gorman, the one who said he’d found her by the side of the road. Not like him. She shuddered.

Now, the doctor was filling her borrowed time with words. The painting, she realized. He was speaking about the painting. Apparently it, too, had been found on the side of the road. Like trash, he said. Useless, now. Beth thought it was majestic. She supposed to most people it looked like something that belonged in a museum, in a cold, air-conditioned room behind glass.

“No place for it anymore,” Dr. Edwards insisted.

Beth understood the meaning behind his words, even if he thought she didn't. _If there’s no place for it, then why is it still here?_

“It’s beautiful,” she piped up, looking from the painted canvas to the man in front of her. _“Don’t you think it’s beautiful?”_ she remembered saying to an entirely different man, not so long ago.

The doctor continued on, explaining to her with a resigned certainty of the impossibility of rising above. How they were all just animals now. Trapped in this life, she supposed he meant, like guinea pigs in a cage.

And yet…Beth could not accept that. Her father had not accepted it, not even with his dying breath. Of that she was sure. And had she and Daryl not risen to face life once more, even after losing everything? It would have been easy, so easy to just have surrendered themselves to mudsnakes and suck-ass camps. But she had insisted. Insisted on getting herself that damn drink.

Like it had meant something.

(It had.)

It seemed absurd to think of it now. Getting wasted out there, burning down their only shelter. Running like a pair of drunken college kids into the night. But Beth thought her daddy would’ve been proud. Of her…and of Daryl. Not for the drinking. Not even for the breathing and surviving. But for the _livin’_.

The record played on, and Beth found herself listening more intently to the old-fashioned, upbeat tune over the sound of the doctor droning on. She found herself starting to hum along in her head…

 _“Sing me a song, Bethy._ ” In her heart, she could still hear her father’s loving tone. And then the voice of another, a quiet, familiar rasp. Tentative, almost shy. _“Why don’t you play some more? Keep singin’.”_

And in that moment, she remembered the time when the words and sounds emanating from her lips had transformed around her and around the man lying with lids half-close inside an open coffin. Had _transcended_.

 _I will,_ she vowed.

And she would. For both those men who’d been taken from her too soon. And for herself. For it was all she had left now. They’d taken whatever she might’ve carried on her person. Her clothes. Her boots. Even her necklace, the one her mom had bought for her on a shopping trip to this very city. Her gun. Her little knife. Her…diary. She felt tears prick the corners of her eyes; she would not let them fall. _I don’t cry anymore, Daryl._

No, all she had left now was her voice, and the haunting memory of music—the memory of transcendent joy shared with one now gone.

She took a deep breath, and with the brightest and most honest smile she could muster, she looked up at the doctor. “I sing,” she told him. “I still sing.”

~

The charred remains of the city rose against the pale, colorless sky, like the jagged teeth of some great beast. Like the jaws of a rotten world.

Rotters, they called them here. The name was as apt as any.

But, looking down, it was not the swarms of undead, but the high-rises, empty, cold, abandoned, that dominated the scene before her. She could not seem to tear her gaze from that ruined cityscape. She half expected to see billowing plumes still rising from smoking towers. Napalm, Edwards had said. Burns. _They burned it down_ , she thought. _They burned the whole damn city down._

Beth had not been to Atlanta since the turn. She had only heard tell of its current state from Rick, from Glenn…and from Daryl.

She had tried not to think of him, here in this city. She had tried not to think of him for days. She’d managed to go a few minutes, just now, when listening to the doctor’s story. The jets, the bombs, the screams…she’d not wanted to believe his terrible tale. The thoughts of the people here in this city, the thoughts of children burning, blown to dust and ashes by those who were supposed to help them. Thinking of the agony, the fear and the pain that these multitudes must have faced in their last moments had, for a time, sent all other thoughts fleeing from her mind.

It was a betrayal, she thought. A betrayal of authority.

 _What was the point?_ she wondered. For in scorching the city with their unholy fire, it seemed to her that the government had succeeded only in slaughtering the living along with the dead.

And now, the dead had once again reclaimed it.

For though she could not see them in their hordes, she knew they were there. At least she could not smell them from all the way up there. But the signs were there all the same. She could see carrion birds, a whole flock, descending upon something down below. She could hear their cawing and squabbling—the echoes of their dark feast.

Oh yes, the city belonged to the dead. Just as so much of what had once been the human world.

But the land beneath the ruins remained. Even there on that rooftop, shoots of weeds grew up from beneath the gravel. And out there, the fields and the forests still grew, as if furrows and paths had never been forged through them. Wild creatures still roamed, as if man had never driven them out. Crows still feasted and flew—the farm girl in her knew it was just what crows do.

In that moment, she saw beyond the towers of the city. In her mind’s eye she saw as a bird sees, across the charred ruins of the metropolis to the vast countryside and to the dark forest beyond. _I am still there_ , she realized. For surely some part of her had been left behind. Some part of her even now wandered in the forest of its own accord. Perhaps it was a part of her that would be out there forever. Some shade of herself, a walker-Beth, wandering the wilds for eternity, always seeking, but never finding, rest. Or maybe the real Beth was still out there, and she was but the shadow.

 _Oh, why did we ever leave those woods?_ Daryl had always tried to find her whatever she wanted. Whatever she needed. If only she’d not gone looking for a weapon. If only she hadn’t stepped in that bear trap. If only they’d not stayed in that place. If only she’d not wanted that damn dog.

If only she’d been able, in that heart-stopping moment, to say something other than _“Oh.”_

As she gazed out beyond the towers to the distant countryside, there it was. The deep, cutting pain. The slash of a whetstone-sharpened knife. _Where are you?_ her heart’s blood cried into the distance.

Whether she called out to the shadow-Beth that still haunted those woods, or to the man with whom she’d walked side-by-side, hand-in-hand, beneath the shade of oak, birch, and pine, the man she’d lain with beside campfire after campfire, the man from whom she’d learned so much, the man she’d lost, she could no longer tell. For time’s hands had already begun to _tick, tick, tick_ and to play strange tricks upon her. Sometimes she still thought this was yet another nightmare, and she half expected to wake to scent of pine needles and fresh rain. To the creak of leather, and to his lips moving against her hair, to his breath hot against her forehead, the callused pad of his thumb light upon her cheek.

And then there were the nights. Dark nights, in which she would lie awake and unable to sleep upon that hard hospital bed, hard as the one she’d slept on, once upon a time, in another life. In another prison. A prison called home.

As she lay there, she listened to the heavy steps in the hallways, the officer-guards always on duty. It was not the familiar sound of footsteps echoing down the hallways of the prison, amidst comforting sounds of family snoring. No, each heavy footfall sent shards of ice, cold shivers through her. Each time the footsteps passed her door, her hand automatically reached down for the hilt of her knife, but found only the coarse, starched hospital sheets.

In those times she longed for the soft padding of night-creatures in the forest around her. She would have welcomed little Judith’s wailing, or even the slow shuffling and groaning of walkers outside a suck-ass camp, rather than listen one more moment to the heavy echo of officers down that cold, dark corridor.

On those nights, as she stared up at the dark ceiling, gripping her sheets tightly, Beth would wonder if this dim, empty place of endless work and false smiles was the only reality she’d ever known, and the other times, the farm times, the prison times, the forest times, were all just figments of her imagination. Perhaps, she had never known a home. Perhaps she was but dreaming of ages and worlds and places—and people— that had never been, and never would be.

But then, while working, or at certain points during the day when she was awake and lucid once more, and performing a menial task such as mopping a pool of dark crimson from the cold linoleum, she would remember. Just little things. And she would smile, and hum to herself, the vibrations of sound soothing her heart and mind, the metallic tang of the spilled blood at her feet taking her back. Back to the forest, back to their hunts, back to each of the places they’d found. Back to _him._

In those moments, she knew that it had been real. That _he_ had been real. As she hummed, each little detail came back, as though flipping through pages of her lost diary. The way he’d smashed that godforsaken bottle of Peach Schnapps. The look of mingled disbelief and admiration on his face when she’d told him, with smiling confidence, that they should burn it down. The feeling of the forest-air filling her lungs to burning when she ran through the woods ahead of him. The joyous laughter catching in her throat whenever he’d finally caught up with her. The little smirk in the corner of his mouth whenever she’d handled his bow and hit her chosen target with one of his precious bolts. How he’d scratch the stubble on his chin with one hand, pensively, as if weighing her up, taking her measure. _“You’re heavier than you look.”_ And the way his hands had begun to seek hers, and hers had somehow found their way into his. How their hands, once tightly clasped, now seemed akin to chain-links cruelly severed.

And _oh_. The way he’d looked at her, those last, horrible, beautiful nights. She still heard the catch in his voice when he’d asked her—no, entreated her—to _“keep singin’.”_

The pale light of the dim afternoon sun hit her eyes and she squinted at Dr. Edwards, still speaking from where he sat on the concrete wall before her. He was going on about how they’d held out here, for so long. Like it was something to be proud of, this interminable existence of theirs.

“You call this _livin’?”_ she blurted. She could hear the incredulousness in her tone, but she did not try to conceal it.

For Beth Greene knew what it was to live, now more than ever. She knew and she would not settle for a half-life, lived in cold, shadowy hallways. Not even one that was supposedly _safe_.

If there was one thing that she had learned on the run from the prison with Daryl Dixon, it was that there were no safe places left. Not on this earth.

A place was only as safe as you made it. As safe as the people in it.

Beth knew that sometimes, all you needed was the right person, and suddenly a string of cans around a campfire in a grove of wild oaks and dark pines, beneath the blackest of night skies, could be as safe as the walls and fences of any prison.

Dr. Edwards did not seem overly fazed by her ire. Or at best, he seemed, if not apologetic, then long-resigned to the way of his world.

His world, perhaps. Not hers.

Even with her back turned, she could feel the eyes of the armed officer on duty on the rooftop. Always someone on guard. Always someone _watching_.

Those guards ensured this hospital remained 'safe’—from walkers, at least. For now. But there was something missing here. Or perhaps, more accurately…something _amiss_. She’d seen it the previous night in how they’d dealt with Joan.

By now, after everything she’d done, everything she’d seen, Beth had thought herself to possess a strong stomach. Had thought that no amount of blood could faze her. But her entire body, her entire being had recoiled at the command to _hold her down_ , and she had tried to bolt, like a frightened deer.

In the end she’d had as little choice as the girl herself in the matter. If she had felt fear, it was nothing to poor Joan. The young woman had been terrified. So afraid, that she’d rather have risked life and limb, would rather have given herself over to the walkers than remain here for one moment longer. Would rather have let the fever take her, than let them ‘save’ her…than let them keep her here.

Beth’s stomach still churned with the memory of being forced to restrain someone who had obviously been restrained before. Someone who had not consented to have such a thing done to her.

Sure, they had saved her life, her earthly existence. But for what purpose? And at what cost?

_I’m starting to feel afraid of just…being afraid._

A life prolonged was no life at all if lived in fear.

Out there on the roof, a breeze stirred. Cool, but with a hint of warmth. Spring, carried on the wind. Beth could not help but wonder just how much blood she would have on her hands, before this winter was over.

When she had asked Noah about it later, the boy’s answer had sent a fresh chill shuddering through her. One year, he’d said. He’d been here a whole year. It was a truth she had feared—suspected, even—and yet had hoped not to discover.

For all these people’s claims about _greater good this_ and _greater good that_ , Beth had observed that there was precious little _goodness_ here.

Oh, she’d received a few, small kindnesses since she’d arrived— Joan’s strange words soon after she had woken that first, horrible day. And later, the young woman’s sad smile when Beth had hummed softly as she’d spoken to her of devils and prices to pay.

Even these odd conversations with Dr. Edwards—and she chanced a glance over at where he sat solemnly before her even now, pondering what she’d said, perhaps— had been a welcome distraction. Even if, as of late, some of his speeches had left Beth unsettled.

And the lollipop…the unlooked-for present from Noah. Beth smiled, thinking of his kind words of encouragement, hope, and understanding—a far sweeter gift than the treat itself. But she shuddered then, at the memory of candy’s sour-apple taste, of the way Gorman had forced her to… no. She shook her head. She’d tried to avoid him, but the man was everywhere. Watching, always watching. Just like that guard up there on that tower.

The rest of them, the officers, well…she tried not to spare them any further thought. Tried not to let the coldness she sensed in each of them reach out and quench the fire that she had so carefully stoked back to life within her own heart.

Beth could still sense them even now, could sense their unwavering, unnerving gaze, but she kept her back turned to them, kept herself facing Dr. Edwards, and the city.

The city. Taking a deep breath, she looked out once more into joyless, colorless sky, and squinted against the glare of daylight reflected against crumbling towers of glass. Peering beyond the ruined towers, she looked in the direction of where she thought the farm had been, and beyond that to where the prison had stood before it had fallen.

And finally, she looked out between the two, toward the woods and the trees, the fields and the countryside where she had fled with a man who had, for a time, become her last companion on this earth. She stood there, gazing toward where they had run, where they had hunted, where they had…

Suddenly, dark wings flapped wildly before her—the gathering of crows rose up from the ground as though from the jaws of death, and flew past the skyline.

 _Take me with you_ , she wanted to shout to the birds. _Take me far away from here. Take me to him._

That was when she chanced a downward glance. She stared, for as long as she dared, at the ground below, gauging the distance, weighing it up. There was a fleeting moment when she took the smallest of steps closer to the edge. Dr. Edwards was looking elsewhere, maybe he wouldn’t notice, wouldn’t stop her, until…

No. She shook the dark thoughts and the great mocking jaws, waiting for their chance to swallow her up, out of her mind. _I’m heavier than I look_ , she thought with a sad smile.

As soon as she could she would leave this place, but not that way. She would not end it, not now, and not ever again. Nor would she be sent out on a slab. She wouldn’t be gutted, not even when dead. But she would leave, all the same.

Oh yes, she would find a way, seek a path. Forge her own trail.

Where she would go, when she finally got away from here, she did not yet know. Back to the woods, maybe. Back to that place. She could try to find him. She could do it. She could.

But, somehow, with another chill down her spine, she knew. That, even if she got out of here, there would be no going back. Like the farm, like the prison, like the moonshiner’s shack and all the other places they had left behind…that funeral home was as good as gone.

And yet… she thought of Noah’s words: _“He was stronger, would have fought back. Would have been a threat.”_

Maybe Daryl really was still out there. Maybe he had gotten out, that beautiful, horrible night. Maybe he was even now out there, somewhere, searching for her.

She tried to imagine Daryl Dixon in a place like this. She tried to imagine them forcing him to work off a debt here, and it was like trying to picture a wolf hitched to a plow. If it had not been so painfully absurd she would have laughed out loud.

Somehow she did not think a little thing like a gate guarded by walkers would stop a man who had single-handedly faced down a tank. The man who could take down a dozen walkers in his sleep.

If any man could find a trail with no prints, if any man could track her down, even through an urban wasteland such as this, it would be him.

But even if her companion were truly gone, even if, god forbid, he really had given himself up, given up his blood and body to save her own, it made no difference. In her heart, Daryl Dixon would always be the last man standing. The last real man she’d ever known.

And with that last man, in a wood deep, and dark, and dangerous, she had once lived.

Beth sighed and breathed in the rising wind, drew the billowing breeze into her lungs, as though she could breathe some of that life back into her being.

But suddenly, she was tired. So very tired. Tired of the conversation. Tired of being watched.

Tired of looking out across the city’s expanse, when all she really wanted to do was fly. Fly from this place, like a bird from its cage.

She made some half-hearted excuse, and turned to go.

For it was long-past time to _go_.

As she turned away, Edwards’ voice rang out, calling her back. She paused. He explained that he had something for her to do, some final task of the day. Medicine. Someone needed medicine.

Beth sighed resignedly, and nodded her assent.

 _We all got jobs to do._  

~

Later that night, Beth lay in bed, heart thumping, her breath coming in gasps. She was still shaking uncontrollably.

She had done her job, alright. But it had gone wrong. Something had gone terribly, terribly wrong.

Whether she shook now with fear or with rage, she did not know. All she knew was what she had long sensed. What Joan had warned her from the start, what Noah had tried to tell her—something was not right, in this place.

Her daddy had been a vet, after all. She knew how to read medicine labels. No, she had not gotten the prescription wrong.  
Someone had died. And someone else now suffered for it.

 _There’s still good people, Daryl,_ she’d assured him once. Now, she could’ve wept at her own words.

Such thoughts continued to fall over her, heavy and thick, a blanket that kept out neither the dark nor the cold. Beneath the weighty darkness, Beth lay trembling long into the night.

~

It was dawn.

She emerged from the edge of a dense forest, stepping as quietly as a doe into a mist-filled field. Faint, cloud-filtered light danced across her face. Soft, wet grass tickled her toes.

Glancing down she saw that she was barefoot, wearing a sundress of palest blue, the color of a robin’s egg. The dress was torn and stained, dark crimson splotches that spoke of old wounds. She smiled and shrugged at the sight. It was only a bit of dried blood. What were a few stains, really?

But as she looked down again, she saw something else. Something that did disturb her: fresh blood, bright and red. On her hands and arms. Up to her elbows. Somehow, Beth knew it belonged to the man whose life she’d been forced to end that day, and to the boy who’d been beaten for it in her place.

Wetness hit her face then, and she lifted her eyes to the sky. A soft, warm rain had begun to fall. She raised her hands to the grey clouds, welcoming the spring. She swayed slightly in her rain-soaked garment, as though on the verge of dancing. She smiled as the blood ran in rivulets down her bare arms to fall upon the grass at her feet.

Moving like a cloud, like a ghost, she glided inexorably toward something in the middle of the field. Her bare feet danced lightly upon the ground, barely sinking into the rain-misted lawn. It was only as she found herself halfway across its expanse that she realized where she was.

 _Oh, I’m back_. For she saw them now. Long-dead names, carved into stone. The headstones, the graves outside that place. That place that, for a night, had felt almost like home.

Even through the curtain of soft, warm rain, she beheld him clearly now. He was bent over, up to his waist in dirt, some tool held firmly in his hands. He worked steadily, muscles straining. Dark soil piled on either side of him. His crossbow rested, as always, nearby, propped against something wooden that stuck out of the ground.

As Beth reached him, she knew she must be drenched by now, but she did not care. She perched herself there at the edge of the large hole he was digging. “Found you,” she sang down to him.

The man raised his head; his gaze met hers. Fear and awe and long-held grief passed across his face in a single moment. “You were gone,” he whispered. “Just…gone.”

“Only for the winter,” she said, still smiling. She raised her arms again, to catch the soft shower. “It’s spring now.”

But Daryl shook his head miserably. Water droplets sprayed across her, but she barely felt a thing. “When I open my eyes, you’ll still be gone.” He spoke so softly she barely heard him over the pattering of the rain. “I don’t think…I don’t think I can do it. Not without you.”

She remained unfazed. “Come now, Mr. Dixon. Won’t you share a drink with me?” In her hand she suddenly carried a jar of clear liquid. Beth raised it to her nose, sniffed it. It was strong, familiar. Spirits, she remembered. Something mysterious, forbidden. Something secret. Something only they knew.

Daryl was still looking up at her. His hair was soaked, plastered to his skin. Raindrops fell across the crags of his face. Or were those tears? Beth knew how to make those tears go away—she’d done it before.

She stepped down, down, floating into the half-dug earth beside him. Before he could protest, she held the drink to his parched lips and helped him sip deeply.

When he had drunk it all, gulped it down, she tossed the glass jar aside. She remained where she stood, close, so close to him.

She could smell his skin, could almost taste the dirt and sweat of him.

He’d always been real. So very real.

In that moment, she longed to embrace him--to kiss him, even. Wrap her arms, her whole body around the man, just as she had done before. But for some reason all she could do was reach down and take hold of the shovel alongside him. Her pale fingers, now cleansed of blood, just barely brushed his dirt-stained knuckles. “I’m here,” she said. “Let me help.”

Daryl drew a shuddering breath, and nodded.

They worked steadily. Rain fell, sloshing against their feet. The grave widened around them. But Beth smiled, because she knew.

Together, they were going to get out of here.

~

Beth woke.

She blinked, eyes opening to darkness.

It was midnight, still. Not dawn, after all.

Not yet.

She rose from her bed, her feet barely making a sound as she tread carefully across the cold, hard floor toward the lone window. She realized she was holding her breath, fearful of making any sound, lest the ones outside her door hear her, lest one of them come knocking. Lest one of them be tempted to do more than knock.

The room was pitch dark; the world outside even darker. She wouldn’t have even been able to see the hulking outlines of the city towers if not for the dim glow of the pale moon, shining faintly, half-hidden behind the shadowed clouds of the starless sky.

Once upon another time, beneath another moon, she had sat upon a cabin porch with the man she loved. The man she had not known she loved, until now.

 _“I’ll be gone someday,”_ she’d said to him that night. How could she ever forget his expression, the fleeting but powerful look of abject fear that had crossed his face when she’d spoken those fateful words?

 _Maybe_ , she thought, _that’s all I’m good for, now. Disappearin’._

Perhaps it was the remnants of the dream, half-remembered. Or perhaps it was the night itself. She had never been able to keep herself from thinking of him at night. The tangled vines, the thorny brambles gave way, as before the sharpest of blades, and all her long-held thoughts, all her long-held fears, all her long-held love came bleeding out.

Thoughts of him flooded her now. Daryl, left behind at that place, not knowing if she were alive or dead. Daryl, sick with worry, all alone out there.

She thought of him, and she feared for him.

Oh, he could keep himself breathing, she knew. He could survive. He could stare into his fire and eat mudsnakes for eternity if he wished. But she feared for his well-being. She could hardly forget how deeply he’d sunk after losing the prison. She prayed silently into the night. _If he’s still alive, if he’s still breathin’, dear God, please just…don’t let him be alone._

There was a sound, heavy footsteps behind her door. Instinctively, she stiffened, holding her breath once more. She held herself as still as a deer in a bowman’s sights, waiting for the latch to turn. But the second hand on the clock ticked by, and the door did not open. Finally, the footsteps retreated, echoing away down the hall.

She let out her breath, exhaling all remnants of crippling fear with it, and drew herself upright.

From the darkened window, her scarred face peered back at her. Frail she might seem to outward eyes, but since the turning of the world, the will to live had ever been writ upon her skin. She gazed steadfastly at her reflection, and this time did not look away. She stood straight as an arrow, ready to fly, ready to flee this place once and for all.

The others might have resigned themselves to half-lives. Might have had the fight beaten out of them until they had little choice. Might have accepted their fate of remaining year after year here in this prison. But she had not.

She thought of Dawn, waiting for someone to come to save her. To reward her for a job well done. Beth shook her head in utter disbelief. She no more believed anyone was coming to rescue them and this place than she believed that they’d ever let her leave of her own accord.

It wasn’t that Beth didn’t believe in lights at ends of tunnels. It was simply that she knew that waiting around had never saved anyone, least of all herself. You had to _do somethin_ ’. Find your own damn drink. Make your own light.

Start your own fire.

Tomorrow, she decided. As soon as it was light, as soon as she could walk down the hallway past the guards without causing alarm, she would approach the boy. He’d been beaten because of her mistake—maybe she could somehow make it right. Maybe she could help him find the way out.

Dr. Edwards had shown her another door, another exit blocked only by the wandering dead. Maybe it had been a trap.

Or, maybe, it had been a dare.

There was only one way to find out. Until then…

Suddenly, she could feel it once more. Wet grass, beneath her feet. Damp earth, under her toes. The shovel in her hands, and in his. Digging down to where the dead lay, waiting. The rain falling. Spring emerging, rising from winter’s tomb.

 _Sometimes_ , Beth thought, _you have to dig deep to find your wings. Sometimes, you have to go down, down into the ground before you can fly._

She remembered the dream, and she knew. She knew how they’d do it. How she was going to get out.

Beth lifted her hand, pressing her palm against the cool windowpane. No rivulets ran down the cold, hard surface. The warm spring rains had not yet arrived. But she could not wait for them. Urgency gripped her—somehow she sensed that to wait too much longer could spell disaster.

Daryl needed her, was searching for her even now, desperately. If he lived and breathed, surely he was tracking her.

But even the greatest hunter, the greatest tracker could not sniff his way through concrete and steel. _He might track me, maybe even as far as the roads. But he won’t find me up here, hidden away in this tower._ It was up to her to find him. He’d taught her how to track, how to find even the most elusive creature out there in the woods.

“You gotta hold on,” she whispered, her breath a ghost of condensation against the glass. “I’m comin’.”

She let the words fly, let them wing their way to her companion, alone out there in the darkness, and to that shadow of her soul, still wandering the forests of the night.

~


End file.
